


Shouldn't

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Crush, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine." There are some unexpected temptations in being in love with a model and some advantages that come with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shouldn't

Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine.

He knew it was a bad idea the moment he saw it sitting in the rack at the store, was already regretting glancing as he read _Sakuraba Haruto_ printed across the cover under the endearingly awkward smile of the individual in question. The magazine promised ‘exclusive insight’ into Sakuraba’s life, all the trapping of intimacy that Takami doesn’t need, not when he sees Sakuraba on a daily basis for hours at a time. But it wasn’t the lure of the article that caught his eye; it was that smile, the drag of Sakuraba’s mouth up into shy pleasure that held his attention, and it’s not until the cashier asks him if he’d like to buy anything else that he even realizes he’s at the front of the line. And then: “Yes,” fast, before he can think better of it, and he’s reaching for the magazine, sliding the glossy weight of it free of the rack to set on the counter. “This too, please.”

He shouldn’t have done it. Takami knows he has a problem -- he’s not so blind to his own feelings as to deny the rush of heat in his veins every time he thinks about his teammate -- and he decided long ago that the best way to handle his own interest was to ignore it as much as possible and hide it when he can’t push it down. Buying a magazine with Sakuraba’s face splashed over the cover is a terrible idea, a moment of weakness he can’t afford to indulge in, and he spends the entire walk back thinking about getting rid of it, about tugging the magazine free of his bag and tossing it in the trashcan he walks past on his way home. But he walks past the trashcans without pausing, without even reaching for the weight in his bag, and by the time he’s unlocking his front door and stepping inside he knows any resistance was long since rendered futile.

He goes straight for his bedroom. The magazine feels like evidence, like something he has to hide as soon as possible, even before he unpacks the few groceries he bought into the cool of the fridge. He shuts the door behind him, sets the bag down, and then he’s pulling the magazine out, his heart going faster as if he’s been caught with something far more illicit than a compilation of ads and photo shoots intended for a younger and more feminine audience than Takami is.

He intends to leave it on the desk, to slide it facedown to the back corner to be picked back up later, after dinner in the quiet hours before bed; but it comes out face-up, and there’s that smile again, soft and inviting even in still-frame. Sakuraba’s clearly been dressed up for the shoot, has his shoulders hunched in as if to hide the full breadth of them, and Takami is fairly sure either makeup or Photoshop is responsible for the smooth of his skin and the oversaturated color of his eyes. But it’s still Sakuraba, identifiably the same person Takami sees sweating through football practice at the club every day, and his mouth looks like it always does, so close to reality that Takami can imagine the other smiling like that at the end of practice, as he shakes his hair back from the mess his helmet makes of it or while he’s stripping his practice uniform off his shoulders. Takami can picture Sakuraba looking back over his shoulder at him, can bring the sweet of this expression to his own mental concept of _Sakuraba_ , can imagine stepping in closer to reach for his elbow, to…

“Oh no,” Takami says, soft and resigned because he knows this is a bad idea. But he’s reaching for the bedroom door anyway, clicking the lock into place nearly soundlessly, and then doubling back, the weight of the locked door behind him commitment to what he’s about to do even before he’s reached for the magazine again. He slides the weight off the desk, crosses the floor to his bed, and then he’s twisting to drop over the sheets, to fall back across the mattress while he fumbles the magazine open to the cover story in the center. The pages ruffle, glossy sheets slipping over themselves, and then there’s another glimpse of Sakuraba’s face and Takami’s fingers catch and draw the magazine wider. It’s a half-page image, this time, interrupted with the text of an interview along the bottom, but Takami doesn’t even skim over the questions about Sakuraba’s favorite kind of food or what his ideal date is. He’s twisting the pages back instead, rolling them around the spine of the magazine so he can hold it up one-handed while he unfastens the front of his jeans with his other.

“This is a bad idea,” he says, murmuring the words aloud as if they’ll have some kind of effect on the drag of his own hands at his clothes or on the way his fingers are going shaky on the adrenaline of anticipation. His zipper comes open, the weight of his jeans eases, and then he’s pushing his fingers down against the tremor of tension in his stomach and he’s past the point of stopping even before his hand brushes against the half-hard shape of his cock going hot inside his boxers. Takami lets a breath go, judgment and resignation blurring to a slur on his tongue, and then his fingers are closing around himself, and when he draws friction up over his skin he can feel the relief of it sweep out into his veins like a wave. He groans faint and low in the back of his throat, and then he’s settling into the bed, bracing his arm out over him to hold the magazine while his other hand strokes up over the resistance of his hardening cock. It’s better than his imagination has been, better to have the shape of Sakuraba’s eyes and the curve of his lips visible right in front of him; Takami is going hotter faster than he expected, as if the wide-eyed image on the page in front of him is the sun to heat his blood to steam without any effort at all. He can see the shape of Sakuraba’s shoulders against the clinging t-shirt they put him in, and the shape of the clothing is all wrong for the Sakuraba Takami knows but he can appreciate the aesthetics of it, can see the way the pale shade brings out flecks of color in Sakuraba’s wide eyes and the way the muscle in his arms presses tight against the sleeves. Takami’s breathing harder, his cock swelling under the rhythmic stroke of his hand, and then he thinks to let a sheet slide free of his hold and he sees the image on the next page over.

“Oh _god_ ,” he blurts, and he’s rolling over, twisting onto his stomach without letting go of the grip he’s got around his cock. The magazine falls flat on the bed, spread open on this new page, and Takami rocks his weight back over his knees, braces himself on his free elbow as he speeds the drag of his hand. Sakuraba’s peeling the too-tight shirt off on the next page, his shoulders flexing through the motion of dragging it up over his head, and Takami can’t see his face but he can see the curve of Sakuraba’s spine, can see the sharp dip along his hipbone cutting down to the top edge of his jeans. Sakuraba’s skin looks like it’s glowing gold, shining in whatever lights they had trained on him, and it makes him look like he’s in direct sunlight, like summer heat is kissing its way along the expanse of bare skin the image shows. Takami’s skin goes hot again, shudders through a wave of warmth, and then he curls his fingers under the promise of the page and turns to the next, and of course it’s what he knew it would be. Sakuraba’s across the entire page, a hand lifted to push his hair back from his face and his smile the more endearing for the shadow his upraised arm casts over his features. His shirt is gone, cut entirely from the frame, his jeans so low on his hips Takami imagines he can see the promise of gold hair edging against the line of denim just over his button. His hips are sharp lines, dipping down past the promise of that waistband, and then there’s his shoulders, the one raised with his arm and the other curling forward in a motion that would hide the strength there if he had a shirt on to hide behind. As it is it just shows off the weight of muscle across his chest, the flexing tension along his stomach, and Takami can’t breathe, can’t drag his eyes away from the image. He wants to press his mouth to the edge of Sakuraba’s hip, wants to lick up the flat of his stomach; he wants to see the shudder of breathing coming pleasure-fast in that gold-tanned chest, wants to see the line of those shoulders gone slick and glistening with sweat. Takami can imagine the dark of Sakuraba’s lashes dipping heavy over bright eyes, can picture the soft of the other’s smile going slack on a groan of satisfaction, can see Sakuraba’s cock twitching under Takami to spill over the tension of his stomach and Takami...and Takami’s coming, his vision hazing to white as he jerks through the electricity of heat that surges through him. His movement stutters, his strokes falling out-of-rhythm as he comes, and somewhere distantly he’s cringing about the sheets but at the moment he’s gasping for breath, tasting Sakuraba’s name at the back of his tongue like the unvoiced moan is demanding to be set free. His movement slows, the heat eases; and then Takami blinks his vision back into focus, and sees the picture of Sakuraba again, and hisses through another jolt of sensation as the last aftershock of orgasm shakes down his spine to leave him spent and shaky with resolved tension. His hand is sticky, his sheets a mess; when he pushes back up over his knees and takes stock his jeans are dirty too, damp from pressing too close to the wet of the sheets. Takami sighs, lets himself go, and gets up on shaky legs to clean his bed and his clothes as best he can before he faces reemerging from the bedroom.

He knows he should get rid of the magazine. It’s already been a source of temptation; he should throw it out before his resolve collapses again, should remove the possibility before he can give in to it once more. But he leaves it where it lies, changes his jeans and his top sheet without even closing the weight of the pages on themselves, and when he finally does reach for it it’s to fold it shut with as much care as if the images are Sakuraba in truth before he lifts the edge of his mattress and slides the magazine under it to protect it from a casual glance around the room.

Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it again.


End file.
